Pro re nata
by Got Tea
Summary: For the treatment of sleeplessness; use as needed...
1. Pro re nata - use as required

Greg stood in DB's office waiting for his assignment feeling decidedly uneasy. Nick was away at a remote crime scene, and Finn and Morgan were chatting quietly to his left, also waiting. DB was on the phone, seated behind his desk with a frown on his face as he tried to get rid of his caller, his gaze sweeping over his subordinates with measured curiosity.

Greg pulled out his own cell phone, tapping out a cheerfully teasing message to his best friend.

'Sara, are you sleeping? Did you forget to get up for work?'

He hit send and returned to his worrying. Sara had been distant and edgy lately; he knew she was miserable over Grissom's apparently abrupt decision to end their relationship, but was as reluctant to talk about it as her body was to allow her to sleep. He hated to wake her, if she had succumbed to slumber, but he knew she would be furious if she missed work.

Thinking about her work habits he sighed; Sara had returned to her old ways in the last few months. She arrived first, left last and maxed out on overtime every month without fail. That she wasn't here now made him feel queasy and tense. Seeing DB looked to be stuck for the moment, he stepped out into the hallway and dialled Sara's home phone. He let it ring all the way to voicemail before hanging up and trying again. Still not getting an answer he tried her cell, and growled in irritation when he heard nothing but empty ringing and the standard phone company message she had reverted to recently.

He slid back into the office just as DB was hanging up, a frown nestled in his brows. He handed a slip of paper to Finn.

"Suspicious activity in Henderson Finn, Morgan," he said with a shrug at Morgan's raised eyebrow. "No idea, but Vartann will meet you there. Greg, you and I have a body in a dumpster," he finished. Greg nodded, too preoccupied to grimace in disgust. He watched Finn and Morgan leave before turning to the boss.

"Did she answer any of your calls?" asked DB, beating him to it. Greg shook his head, the gnawing feeling in his stomach intensifying. DB sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We'll swing by her place first," he decided, lips pursed in thought. "I was worried when I got here before her, but these damn paper chasers have been after me all evening. She hasn't been right since that man walked out on her."

Greg let that phrase turn over in his head as they walked out to the parking lot. That man! The one whom he had admired and looked up to for years. That man, whom as a young intrepid scientist he had practically hero worshipped. The one who he had been elated to see finally notice his best friend and put meaning and purpose back into her life. The one whose excited emails from Costa Rica he had so enthusiastically read, desperate for any news about what they were up too.

That man who Sara had given her heart and soul to, and who had so savagely handed them back seemingly out of the nowhere, torn, tattered and damaged beyond repair. Listening to her confession weeks ago now, he had been devastated on her behalf, and incensed by his former mentor's actions.

Now he sat silently in the passenger seat as DB drove, unwilling to make polite conversation, feeling tired and thoroughly worn down by the current state of affairs.

When they pulled up in front of Sara's home he felt his stomach lurch; her car was pulled onto the drive, and not into the garage where it usually rested. They walked up to the door and DB rang the bell; they heard it echo through the silent house, but heard or saw no movement. DB took a step back from the threshold, scanning the building for an open window but Greg simply shook his head and pulled his keys from his pocket, selecting one and pushing it into the lock. Sara had given it to him when she returned from Paris; not knowing her neighbours well, she had wanted someone she knew and trusted to have a spare.

Inside it was dark, cool and oddly silent. Nothing hummed or creaked like in other homes, and he wondered idly if this was a coping mechanism for the insomnia that plagued his friend. He called her name softly, and then louder when he got no response. DB following, he passed through the empty living room and into the equally quiet kitchen. The air was so still that not even the fronds of the many plants moved. The office was the same, as were the spare bedroom and bathroom. With a sigh, Greg walked to Sara's bedroom door and tapped gently on the frame, calling out to her. Hearing nothing he pushed the door further ajar and peered inside. In the dim light from the hall lamp DB had flicked on he saw a pair of luminous amber eyes staring at him through the dark; Benjamin, a young mackerel tabby cat, regarded Greg irritably as he stepped into the room, disturbing his peaceful nap. Greg called out to Sara, seeing her shadowy form on the bed. When she didn't answer, he groped along the wall for a switch until he managed to illuminate the room in a dim glow from the muted lights.

Sara was sprawled face down on top of the bed, wearing yoga pants and a soft sweater he recognized as having seen her relax in before. Benjamin was curled into her side, one paw resting possessively on her arm; he glared angrily as Greg approached.

"Sara," called Greg again, louder this time. Still his friend didn't respond and, upon reaching the bed, Greg reached out a hand to gently shake her shoulder. She moved under his touch, but only because of it; when he let go, she slipped right back into the same position, unmoving and unresponsive. Alarmed, he slid a hand under her shoulder and pushed, rolling her onto her back. The cat hissed and swiped a paw at him, claws extended.

"Whoa little man," soothed DB, scooping the cat up and tucking it under one arm as he scanned the room. Greg bent over Sara, listening for breath in her lungs. DB's gaze fell on the cabinet on the other side of the bed and he walked around to examine the few items neatly placed on top. One item stood out and he picked it up, studying the label.

"Eszopiclone," he said, squinting at the date. "It was refilled three days ago, and it's empty." He upended the open bottle over the bed, but nothing fell out. Greg peeled back one of Sara's eyelids to reveal a pinpoint pupil.

"I'll call an ambulance," DB's tone was urgent now, his phone already in his hand as he let the bottle fall. The cat squirmed in his grip, and he unconsciously rubbed its chest with his thumb, trying to sooth the animal as he dialled.

"Sara, can you hear me?" demanded Greg, as he struggled to find a pulse in her wrist, and then her neck. She was breathing, but barely and her lips were tinged blue with lack of oxygen. He tried to think of what he knew about eszopiclone and its overdose implications.

"Eszopiclone," he mumbled aloud, trying to focus and stem off his panic. "Known as Lunesta, used to treat insomnia and falls under the nonbenzodiazepine hypnotics class. Three milligrams is equivalent to ten milligrams of diazepam. Signs of overdose include lack of awareness, coronary something or other and coma. Great!" he muttered, staring at Sara.

"They're on their way," said DB abruptly, returning his phone to his pocket. Still tucked between DB's arm and his CSI vest, Benjamin struggled wildly in his quest to get back to Sara. DB restrained the cat with two hands and glanced around quickly; spotting the bathroom door he strode over, stuck his head inside checking for other exits and, finding none, quickly shut the now howling feline inside.

"I can't find a pulse," said Greg urgently as DB knelt on the bed on Sara's other side. Skipping her wrist, the older man reached straight for the carotid, probing with more pressure than he would on a conscious patient. Greg yanked out his phone and dropped it on the bed; he tapped in a speed dial command and pressed the button for speakerphone.

"Autopsy," answered the familiar voice as Greg leant over Sara's head, listening to her shallow breaths.

"Doc its Greg," he said without preamble. "Sara's overdosed on eszopiclone. Paramedics are on the way but we can't find her pulse and her breathing is negligible."

"Breathing is non-existent," interrupted DB as the slight rise and fall in Sara's chest stopped. "I found her pulse, but its…" he floundered for the right words. "Weird. Too slow."

"Greg, breathe for her," instructed Doc. "I'll count for you. DB, is there any indication of how long ago she overdosed?"

Greg tilted Sara's head back and pinched her nose, his other hand on her chin, holding her mouth open. Taking a deep breath he sealed his mouth over hers and exhaled to Doc Robbins count.

DB scanned the room with a practiced gaze; his eyes fell on Sara's phone and he picked it up, sliding his thumb over the screen to activate it. The phone showed an alarm set to wake her before shift; it had gone off but not been silenced, instead ringing itself into submission.

"At least two and a half hours Doc," he called over the coroner's steady counting. As Greg blew another lungful of air into Sara, Doc Robbins broke his count momentarily.

"You must tell the paramedics," he said urgently, "it will change how they treat her." He resumed his count as Greg inhaled deeply.

"I hear sirens," said DB, running to the front door.

He returned within a minute, leading a pair of paramedics who couldn't have been more different if they tried. The man was tall and lanky, with dark features and a shock of black hair that looked as though no amount of taming would keep it in order. The woman was tiny, muscular and pale in the extreme. Her eyes were such a light blue they appeared clear, and her blonde hair was swept into an immaculate braid from which not a single strand dared escape. DB filled them in as they moved, and Greg stepped aside as they took over with the easy calm brought about by many years of practice.

Doc Robbins fell silent, listening attentively to discern any possible information. Saskia sliced through Sara's sweater, exposing a dark blue tank top and applied monitoring leads as Matt took over ventilation. The monitor beeped and Greg and DB stared as wavy lines appeared.

"Arrhythmia," said Saskia, trying to get an IV line started. "God this is like trying to find a needle in a haystack," she muttered, searching for a vein that wasn't constricted and near invisible.

The machine squealed, making Greg and DB jump backwards in shock.

"V-fib," muttered Matt as Saskia reached for the electrodes, promptly sticking them to Sara's chest and attaching the wires to the defibrillator.

"Charging," said Saskia as the defibrillator whined. "Clear," she ordered and they both moved away. Sara twitched slightly as the shock tore from the end of the leads and into her body and the monitor let out a long, continuing beep as the lines smoothed out.

"Asystole," narrated Saskia, unaware she was even speaking. "Come on," she cajoled Sara's heart, staring intently at the flat line. She sighed in satisfaction when the monotone ended and a healthier rhythm took its place, indicating normal cardiac function had been restored. Matt was back breathing for Sara as Saskia prepared her to travel.

"Where are you taking her?" asked DB as the paramedics strapped Sara to the stretcher.

"University Medical Centre," said Mark, tightening a strap across Sara's forehead as Saskia injected medication into the IV port she had finally managed to obtain. Seconds later they were gone, the front door slamming behind them.

"I'll meet you there," said Doc Robbins, making Greg jump. He had forgotten the phone call was still running. Hearing the doctor disconnect, he picked up the device which still lay on the bed and pocketed it.

"No what," he asked numbly, his gaze falling on DB.

"We look for anything amiss," said the supervisor firmly. "And then go to the hospital." An enraged howl from behind the bathroom door made them both jump again. DB sighed and went to let the cat out of his temporary prison. Benjamin stalked by him in the manner only an irate cat can manage, his tail held high and his fur rippling as he twitched in outrage. Jumping onto the bed he hissed when he saw Sara was gone, sniffing the blankets as he clawed at the unfamiliar scents left behind by the paramedics.

"Come on buddy," soothed DB, holding out a hand to stroke the little guy.

"His name is Benjamin," offered Greg helpfully. "Sara rescued him from an abusive home about nine months ago. They're nuts about each other, but he doesn't seem to like anyone else. He glares at me, and he always hisses at Nick." Finding nothing in the room that seemed to indicate Sara's state of mind, he looked at the growling cat and sighed, wincing as DB snatched his fingers away a second too slow to avoid being bitten. "Maybe we can ply him with food?" he suggested, moving to the kitchen where he knew Sara kept her pet supplies. Benjamin's dish was mostly full, but he topped it off and replaced the water anyway before hunting through the immaculate countertops, hoping to find anything to help explain the situation. He found nothing, returning to the bedroom to find DB exiting the bathroom with a sigh and a shake of his head.

"Absolutely nothing," he said to Greg.

"Same," replied the CSI with a defeated sigh.

"Let's go to the hospital then," suggested DB. "Maybe they can tell us more." Trailing his boss out of the room, Greg scooped up Sara's phone and dropped it into his vest pocket just in case.

…

The ride to the hospital was silent, both men running the last hour over in their minds, wondering not just what had happened, but how.

An orderly at the main emergency desk directed them to the waiting room, where they found a silent Doc watching for them. Greg said nothing as the other two spoke, instead sliding into a chair and feeling despair settle upon him with all its lead weight accompaniment.

DB's phone rang and he frowned, wondering who wanted him just then.

"Hello?" he answered, without bothering to look at the screen.

"Where are you?" demanded Brass, impatient to get moving with the case.

"Jim, I'm sorry," said DB, having forgotten entirely about the body he and Greg were supposed to be attending. Knowing the police captain shared a deep friendship with Sara, he continued. "I'm at University Medical Centre with Greg; Sara is unwell." Brass didn't miss the unspoken urgency of his remark.

"Can you send a tech out here? I may not be a scientist, but I'm pretty sure the victim is a dealer and junkie from the neighbourhood."

"I'll call Hodges," said DB with some satisfaction, having spent much of the previous evening being harassed by the specialist about unfounded accusations surrounding co-workers. "He has a light workload tonight."

By the time he'd hung up the phone and walked the length of the hospital and back to find three cups of decent coffee, Brass was striding into the waiting room. DB, Doc and Brass crowded into a corner to talk, keeping an eye on Greg who sat staring into his cup as though it would provide the answers he was looking for.

"What happened?" asked Brass, skipping pleasantries. "I saw her yesterday and she seemed fine."

"She overdosed on eszopiclone," said Doc, his lips pursed in anger. Brass gave him a look.

"Lunesta," translated DB. "Sleeping pills. She didn't show up for the start of shift; Greg and I went to check on her."

"So what's wrong with her?" Brass wanted to know, one hand impatiently tapping a staccato beat against his thigh.

"Cardiac arrhythmia," said Doc. "They had to shock her heart back into rhythm. She wasn't breathing independently either."

"How do you," began Brass.

"I was on the phone with Greg," shrugged the doctor.

"What are we looking at?" asked DB, wondering about Sara's immediate future. Doc sighed and leant back against the wall, taking a deep sip of coffee.

"Coronary vasospasm; the blood vessels of the heart spasm and constrict, limiting or blocking blood flow. That leads to ischemia, where the tissues are devoid of oxygen and sometimes necrosis, where the tissue dies. Cardiac ischemia can also cause myocardial infarction."

"Heart attack," said Brass flatly, recognizing that one. Doc nodded bleakly.

"Will she live?" asked DB, wanting a straight answer.

"That depends on a lot of factors," replied Doc, raising a hand in a helpless gesture. "How much she ingested, how long ago, whether they can counteract the drug before it does too much damage. There are risks of prolonged coma; that she can't breathe independently isn't a good sign." He paused, floundering for words.

"And if she does?" asked Brass grimly.

"She won't be unscathed. Eszopiclone is nasty stuff. If I was a practicing physician, I wouldn't want to prescribe it. There are other, safer sedatives just as easily available."

They fell silent, taking in the grim reality.

"Why was she even taking sleeping pills anyway?" asked Doc, draining his cup and squashing it in his free hand.

"She hasn't slept in months," said DB.

"She never said anything," mused Doc.

"She doesn't," snorted Brass, "she never has."

"At least not until her birthday fiasco," noted DB.

"I could kill that man," snarled Brass suddenly, daggers in his eyes. "I warned him! I warned him when he went running off to Costa Rica that he'd better be sure of himself. I told him that she would lose it if anything like this ever happened between them."

"You're talking about Grissom now, right?" asked DB. Doc nodded as Brass fumed.

"The man never changed in all the years we worked with him," he explained. "It took Sara years to wear him down and get him to admit his feelings. When he did, it was like his universe had shifted. I thought for sure they were destined for forever."

"Why didn't we notice?" asked Brass suddenly, bursting abruptly back into the conversation. "How did we let… this… happen?"

"This…" echoed Doc.

"Attempted suicide," said DB quietly. The other two gaped at him. "Someone needs to say it," he told them, raising his hands peacefully. "We need to acknowledge the facts; Sara tried to kill herself. The question is what do we do now?"

"You mean," seethed Brass into the chilly silence, "what do we do _if_ she lives?"  
…

Greg sat numb and frozen. He could not believe what he had witnessed, and his brain felt as though it was struggling to push aside mountains of clouds determined to impair his thoughts. The only coherent strand floating through his consciousness that he managed to cling on to was a single question; why? Other thoughts swirled in a confused mass; there was something just out of his reach that was important, he knew, but he couldn't reel it in to begin putting the pieces together.

His coffee cooled in his hands as he stared into its murky depths, seeing nothing. It was only when he dimly heard DB mention a name that he stirred. Grissom. His former boss. Sara's estranged husband. He reached into his pocket, groping for the cell phone he had stowed there. Pulling it out he stared at the iPhone and its recycled bamboo cover, wondering if he should call Grissom and let him know what was happening. Was it worth it? He wondered. Would Grissom even care?

…

How long it was before a doctor arrived to speak with them none of them could have said. The news, when it was spoken, was grim. Greg, Brass and DB crowded around as Doc Robbins spoke with the ER physician; words heavy with medical connotation descended upon them, only a few making sense because of Doc's earlier foresight. Cardiac ischemia, coronary arteries, aerobic tissue, myocardium, cerebral hypoxia. As the terms tumbled down around him like spiked hailstones battering his skin, Greg wondered if the list would ever end, until the doctor abruptly asked something that shattered any lingering illusions he may have had.

"If Ms Sidle has a health care proxy, now would be the time to get them here. There may be some decisions to make."

…

The doctor walked back through the heavy double doors of the ER and Greg, Brass and DB turned in unison to Doc, all asking the same question with their eyes.

"Her heart stopped," he said. "When blood stops flowing adequately, aerobic tissue like the heart and brain are damaged very quickly; often the cells can't recover and die. Then the damage is permanent. In Sara's case, there is damage to the heart muscle surrounding the left ventricle; the left anterior descending artery and the left circumflex artery are also affected. At the moment she's holding on, but if she deteriorates anymore they will have to bypass the damage." He paused, searching for a simpler way to put explain. "It's like a cascade of effects; the drug caused a chain reaction of things to happen."

"So, part of her heart died?" asked Brass, wanting clarification. Doc nodded.

"Some cells are damaged, some have died. The same is true of her brain."

"She's brain dead?" choked Greg, distraught. Doc shook his head.

"That's not what I said. Small parts of her brain are dead. The same thing happens with head injuries or strokes. The brain is remarkable; it can be trained in some instances to take over the duties of other areas."

"So she might be fine?"

"Greg, she may never wake up. If her heart stops again, I imagine it will kill her. At the very least, if she recovers she will have many months of rehabilitation."

"Will she recover?" asked DB.

"I really don't know," sighed Doc. "Right now they've cooled her body temperature to slow the effects of hypoxia and try and save cells from damage. She has some advantages over most patients who present with this type of issue; she's young and she's otherwise healthy. If she doesn't deteriorate further, she will probably live. If she does," he raised his hand, palm open and facing upwards as he shrugged.

…

With the acknowledgment that they were unlikely to hear more for the next several hours, Greg walked away from the group headed outside for some fresh air. He pulled out Sara's phone again and stared at it in resentment, bitter anger bubbling inside him. Bringing the screen to life he couldn't help but smile slightly at a picture of Benjamin sprawled on his back, paws in the air, and then felt his heart sink. Not so long ago the welcome screen had been a photo of Grissom and Sara together in Paris. As he scrolled through the phone book, he realized he had no idea where in the world Grissom was right now, and for a moment he felt a flash of savage hope that he was about to wake the man from a sound sleep. He stopped at the right G, his thumb hovering over the send button. Would Sara even want them to call him?

Raising the device to his ear he listened; the connection seemed to take an age before he heard it ring. When it did, he found himself counting. It rang once, twice and again. Then, in the middle of the third ring, there was a slight pause and then the voicemail cut in. He stared, appalled, for a moment before yanking out his own phone and typing in the number. He let it ring through to voicemail, then hung up and redialled. This time it cut to the answering service after just one ring. He took a breath, incensed.

"Grissom, it's Greg," he said flatly. "Sara overdosed on sleeping pills. Her heart is failing and she undoubtedly has brain damage. For some reason I can't fathom you are still her health care proxy, so if you want any say in her treatment you should probably surface from whatever far-flung country you're hiding in." He hung up, his hands shaking so badly with rage he nearly dropped the phone onto the concrete. It took several minutes to school himself into enough stillness before he was able to construct a text and send it to the same recipient; 911, check your messages now! GS

…

The anger over Grissom bypassing the calls helped Greg focus, and he paced back inside as he finally put together the puzzle he had been struggling with for the last few hours. Seeing DB and Brass moving away from the desk, about to leave, he hurried over to them.

"She didn't try to kill herself," he blurted out, sure of himself. They stared at him in varying degrees of shock, pity and disbelief. "Hear me out," he insisted, when DB opened his mouth to protest.

"Sara loves animals," he said quickly. "Especially her cat; she would never, ever do anything that would harm Benjamin, either directly or indirectly, no matter how miserable she was personally. And her house; there's nothing out of order, no note, nothing. She'd even set her alarm to wake herself up for shift. There has to be an alternative explanation."

...

...

I wasn't going to publish this...

This is what happens when I wake up grumpy and am still seething with the writers...

I had always promised myself I would never write a story centralized around unhappy GSR- I don't do angst, I like drama and tension with realistic happy endings...

This is also because I'm stuck with Shalom Aleichem...

This will not/had better not turn into another long WIP; three is plenty at one time! I think I'll be setting a ten chapter limit.

So in the meantime, enjoy and please R&R.

And feel free to puzzle it out: who's right? DB, Doc and Brass, or Greg?


	2. in absentia luci, tenebrae vincunt

in absentia luci, tenebrae vincunt ~ in the absence of light, darkness prevails

... ... ...

Chinggis Khaan International Airport, Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia to Beijing Capital International Airport, Beijing, China: two hours and ten minutes. Plane change and layover: one hour and fifty-five minutes.

…

Sara had been moved to the Coronary Care Unit, a division of the ICU, where they were able to employ more invasive and accurate monitoring. She was still unconscious, and clinging to life by a thread. The damage to her heart was severe, doctors had told Greg earlier. If she could hold on for another twenty-four hours the odds of her survival would start to climb. For now she was intubated, heavily medicated and dangerously close to death. All he could do was stand outside and watch, willing her to pull through.

…

Beijing Capital International Airport, Beijing, China to Vancouver International Airport, Vancouver, Canada: eleven hours. Customs and plane change: forty-nine minutes.

…

Greg couldn't sleep. It was three thirty in the afternoon and he had been up hours longer than usual; on any given day he would be sound asleep. He paced his apartment, trying to toil away the nerves that just wouldn't leave, glad it was his night off and he didn't have to be up for work. With a sigh he gave up on sleep, put his street clothes back on and drove to Sara's house to check on Benjamin. If he happened to find anything out of the ordinary that explained this mess, well then that was an added bonus.

…

Russell sat at his desk with his head in his hands, feeling old, tired and unreservedly thankful for his wonderful wife. Morgan and Finn walked in together, laughing over a joke; they stopped when they saw his expression as he looked up.

"What's wrong?" asked Finn. DB shook his head and indicated for her to shut the door.

"Where are Greg and Sara?" asked Morgan, noting the lack of people in the room. "Is Nick still out in the wilds?" DB nodded, gesturing to empty chairs.

"Yes, he is but I spoke to him a couple of hours ago and he's hoping to be home tomorrow or the day after at the latest. It's Greg's night off and I don't want to call him unless I really have to," continued DB with a sigh.

"Ok," shrugged Finn, relaxing back in her chair. "So where's Sara? She was late yesterday wasn't she?"

"I didn't even see her yesterday," said Morgan, thinking back.

"She's in hospital," sighed DB. "Greg and I found her last night; she'd overdosed on eszopiclone."

"Oh my god," whispered Morgan, horrified.

"Is she ok?" demanded Finn. DB shook his head.

"No she's not. Her heart is failing and if she wakes she will have some degree of brain damage, though they can't say what type at the moment."

"_If_ she wakes up?" asked Finn. DB shrugged helplessly.

"The odds are improving because she's come through the last twenty-four hours," he explained. "But she needs coronary artery bypass surgery."

"That's what old people get," said Morgan faintly, tears running quietly down her cheeks. "When cholesterol blocks their arteries." DB nodded in agreement.

"Two of the vessels in her heart have essentially died," he explained. "I saw her doctor before I came in; Greg called Grissom because he's still her health care proxy and he sent a text that he was coming back, but no one knows where he is or how long it will take. If he doesn't get here soon, they'll probably do the surgery anyway. The longer they wait, the worse she gets and the harder it will be to fix, and then the odds of her recovery keep dropping."

"Why would she do this?" asked Finn, her voice thick as she fought to hold onto her emotions. "She really doesn't seem like the type of person who would want to…" she swallowed, "kill herself." Morgan flinched and mopped her streaming eyes with her sleeve, not having a tissue to hand. DB sighed again and fished a box of Kleenex from a desk drawer, handing them to Morgan.

"We all know how unhappy she's been recently," he pointed out before pausing. "Greg can't accept it though; he thinks there must be an alternative explanation. I'm not sure it that's because he and Sara are very close and he can't deal with the thought of her dying, or if he really has a credible premise. Either way, as I said earlier, I don't want to call him in unless I absolutely have to. I know it'll be a tough night, but we'll divide and conquer. Just process and collect for now, we'll solve the mysteries later."

"Can we see her?" asked Morgan, tears still dripping heavily down her face.

"They won't let anyone into the unit, but you can see her from the window," BD told her sadly. "One other thing though, let's keep this to ourselves for now. I really don't want to hear the gossip running rampant." The two women nodded and got to their feet slowly and heavily, and all three of them headed out to their scenes with the crushing heft of sorrow and confusion weighing down on them.

…

Vancouver International Airport, Vancouver, Canada to McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas, Nevada: two hours forty-five minutes. Arrivals and customs: forty-seven minutes.

Taxi to University Medical Centre: ten point nine miles; travel time twenty-two minutes with traffic.

…

Twenty five hours and three minutes after reading Greg's text message Grissom strode up to the front desk and asked where to find a patient.

"Her name is Sara Sidle."

"Are you a relative sir?" asked the secretary. He paused for just a moment.

"Yes. She's my wife."

…

Greg looked up from his post beside the window and glanced down the hall, hearing a slight commotion. A nurse and a man had collided at the far end of the corridor, just as the man had rounded the corner. They apologized and continued on, the nurse vanishing from view and the man approaching the cardiac unit. Greg felt his blood run cold as he stared at him; aside from the travel rumpled clothes and the associated exhaustion visible in his eyes, he had never looked better or healthier. Whatever he was doing with his life obviously agreed with him. Greg turned back to the window and its view, trying desperately to school himself into a calm state of mind. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands against his sides and stared resolutely at his ailing friend, determined to hold himself together.

"Greg?" Grissom asked in surprise, only noticing the young man as he reached the unit, having been preoccupied with following the signs on the walls.

"You made it back then," said Greg flatly, still staring resolutely through the window. Grissom started in surprise.

"Of course," he replied, a little confused. "How is she?"

"Why don't you ask the doctors? I'm sure they can tell you everything you need to know." Greg trembled slightly with the effort of holding on to his fury.

"Ok," frowned Grissom, "I just thought you would know all the important details." Greg spun to stare at him, incredulous.

"I do," he said quietly. "I also know all the little things, no matter how unimportant or inconsequential they may seem. I know everything that matters, and what doesn't. I wouldn't want to burden you with that though; a doctor can give a much more concise version."

Angry tears in his eyes, Greg walked away, leaving Grissom to stare after him in befuddlement.

…

Gil listened quietly as Doctor Kale, a cardiac specialist explained the diminishing situation; Sara's heart was weakening and could no longer effectively pump the necessary amounts of blood because of the deteriorated capacity on the left side. As a result, the rest of her organs were suffering.

"What are the options?" asked Grissom tiredly, rubbing his weary eyes.

"We've pretty much exhausted all drug therapies," sighed the doctor. "I think bypassing the two arteries is the next step. I was really hoping it wouldn't come to this, but with everything we've done so far, she's just kept deteriorating."

"How soon do you want to do it?" Grissom blinked, struggling to maintain his focus with the bone wearying fatigue of international travel pulling on him.

"Within the next twelve hours; the longer we wait, the harder it will be on her body. I've been consulting with my colleagues; there is a surgery slot open at one o'clock this afternoon. Doctor Patel has agreed to perform the procedure for Sara." Grissom nodded in understanding as Doctor Kale considered him.

"Sir, you look extremely tired," he began, "perhaps you should go home and get some rest. Doctor Patel will need to meet with you at eleven thirty to brief you about the operation and give you the authorization forms."

"I just arrived from Mongolia," nodded Grissom, "I haven't slept in thirty odd hours. I would like to see Sara first, though."

"Certainly," agreed Doctor Kale, leading him out of the small conference room and into the unit. "She isn't conscious, but feel free to talk to her." Grissom thanked him and stepped up beside the bed as the specialist left. He quietly and carefully surveyed Sara and sighed; she looked much worse than he had been expecting. She was extremely pale and covered in hospital paraphernalia, but that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the overt fragility that seemed to envelope her entire being. He had seen her at her lowest ebb, emotionally and physically. He had seen her beaten down and ground up, but always with a spark of fight left in her. Now she looked as though she had utterly given up, as though she no longer cared or even wanted to care.

This observation was as much a feeling as a physical reflection, and it puzzled him. Sara was a natural fighter, it was her inherent nature. She loved a challenge, whether it seemed near impossible or not and would rise to the test time and time again, sinking in her teeth and working with unswerving determination that both unnerved and awed him. Why, he wondered, did she suddenly seem to have lost that fire? Why had she given up when her entire life had always revolved around a battle of some degree?

…

He walked into the silent house and headed straight for the kitchen and a glass of water. He drained it in two long gulps and refilled it to the brim, kicking off his shoes in the process before walking briskly to the bathroom, desperate for a shower and a change of clothes. On the way he trod on something small and hard and let out a muffled exclamation of the rather profane type. Bending down he picked up the offending object and examined it; a toy mouse no larger than his thumb. He lifted an eyebrow in puzzlement, put the toy on the hall table and continued on his way, washing and rinsing thoroughly under the hot spray with a sigh of pleasure.

Dry and wrapped in a towel, he made his way into the bedroom in search of something to sleep in. As he reached automatically for the underwear drawer and a pair of clean boxers he paused and looked around the closet, once again confused. None of Sara's clothing was hanging from the rails or tucked away in the dresser. Making his way back into the room he looked around, noting the complete absence of her possessions. He stuck his head back into the bathroom, depositing his towel on the counter as a glance affirmed what he hadn't noticed before; nothing but his toiletries remained on the surfaces.

Utterly perplexed he walked down the hall to the guest bedroom and pushed aside the already ajar door, flicking on the light as he did so. He just had time to recognize some of Sara's belongings scattered throughout the room before a furious snarl made him jump backwards in alarm. Standing on the bed among a litter of detritus obviously left behind by the paramedics was an irate cat. _That explains the mouse_, Gil thought calmly as he took a deep breath and stepped back into the doorway. The cat barred its teeth, hissing angrily as it paced up and down the bed, clearly defending its territory.

"Ok, I'm going," he said coolly when the animal took a step forward, tail jerking to and fro as it growled deeply in the back of its throat. Leaving the door, he went back to the master room and slid into bed, too tired to think straight anymore. Closing his eyes he tugged the blankets up over his head and fell quickly into a deep dreamless sleep

…

Despite having five hours of solid sleep under his belt, Gil felt as though his head had barely touched the pillow as he drove back to the hospital in Sara's car. His head ached, and his entire body was sore with tiredness. Sitting with Doctor Patel and listening to the details of the surgery he felt that pain spread to his mind with the onslaught of facts and minutiae.

When her chest was open, and the heart examined to determine final suitability for the procedure, grafts would be harvested from arteries or veins in her leg, and then heparin would be administered to prevent blood clotting. Tubes would then be sewn into the heart to start the cardiopulmonary bypass; once that was in effect, the aorta would be clamped and the heart stopped. The blood would then be cooled to eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit and the grafting could begin. The grafts would have one end sewn into the damaged arteries above the point of injury and then the other into the aorta. Following that, the heart would be restarted, protamine would be given as an antidote to the heparin, drainage tubes inserted around the heart and lungs and finally the chest cavity closed.

Grissom listened quietly, not interrupting or asking question until the doctor was finished with his depiction of how the surgery would proceed. Finally he neared the end of their conversation.

"It is a serious operation, with serious risks," he concluded. "I believe however, along with Doctor Kale, that it is the best option for Sara at this time." He reached for the consent forms.

"I must counsel you about the possible problems that may arise as a result of the surgery," he continued gravely. "Heart attack, stroke, embolism and renal failure sometimes occur. Blood, air or fluid may accumulate around the lungs and make breathing difficult. There may be some initial neurocognitive deficiencies, but if that happens they tend to disappear within a period of three months or so. Occasionally after cardiac surgery patients develop arrhythmia of the heartbeat. There is also the possibility of infection, stress to the patient, deep vein thrombosis, chronic pain and complications relating to anesthesia, which include an allergic reaction to the anesthetic drugs, asphyxiation and the inhalation of gastric contents into the lungs."

Grissom wondered if the man was trying to convince him not to sign the paperwork, instead of giving his consent to the procedure, but he signed anyway.

"Thank you sir," said Doctor Patel when he handed over the finished papers. "I expect the operation to take about five hours. I will speak with you again when Sara is settled in recovery."

"Thanks," sighed Grissom, shifting his shoulders to loosen them. "Can I see her beforehand?"

"Of course," replied Doctor Patel. "But not for long; we will take her down soon."

…

Grissom stood by Sara's bed again, staring at her and wondering what she would say if she were aware of the next several hours. He examined her carefully, noting that even in the short space of time he had been sleeping and meeting with her surgeon, she looked worse that she had the last time he'd seen her. He sighed and traced her inert fingers with one of his as he looked at the soft skin of her chest exposed by the low neck of the gown, from under which a plethora of different colored wires emerged. Soon there would be a long scar there, marring the skin he had once love to kiss.

A nurse arrived and gave him a half smile.

"I need to get her ready to go," she said quietly but firmly, indicating the clock on the wall. He nodded and looked down at Sara's face, running the tip of his finger over her temple as he tried, and failed, to find something to say. With a halfhearted nod to the nurse he left, trudging off to the cafeteria to get some coffee before ensconcing himself in the cardiac waiting room.

…

Far too many hours past the end of a shift in which he had snapped at more than one person Brass finally walked out of PD and drove straight to the hospital, intent on at least getting a few moments to talk to Sara before he went home and collapsed into bed. He wasn't bothered that she couldn't hear him, but he was disturbed by the fact that she was alone in a big hospital with no one who knew her there to look after her.

Greg had told him that Grissom had sent a solitary text stating that he was on his way back to the States, but Brass would believe it when he saw it. As far as he was concerned, the other man had given up caring long ago and didn't deserve whatever contact he still had with the woman he had once called his wife. Brass had lost count of the number of nights he had watched her crouch over a corpse, numb with her own loss and the nights after that when she had moved on to drowning in her own pain. He wondered how many times he had taken her to breakfast, listened as she said nothing and tried his best to help her find that beautiful smile once more.

He had thought she was improving; he had glimpsed a grin or two and heard that soft chuckle at Nick and Greg's dreadful jokes. He had even observed her singing to herself as she drove up to a crime scene last week. And then suddenly this had descended upon them, and he was left gasping for breath at the massive sucker punch to his stomach. So much for his hard earned people skills and instincts. He couldn't have been more wrong when it mattered the most.

He walked up to the ward where they had her settled, determined that this time the nurse would let him in to see her, if only for a few minutes. He looked through the window, already feeling cold with the utilitarian nature of the place and felt his chest freeze over in panic. Her bed was missing; the machines still there, the leads, wires and tubes dangling limply toward the floor and the sudden gapping cavern of empty space where she was supposed to be resting. He whirled and dashed back down the hall toward the desk at the entrance of the cardiac unit.

"Where is she?" he demanded of the young man behind the desk.

"Who sir?"

"Sara Sidle dammit," he growled. "Her bed is gone."

"They took her down for surgery about an hour ago," replied the lad calmly.

"Surgery?" asked Brass distantly, clutching the edge of the counter as his mind raced.

"Yes sir. Doctor Patel and his team are with her now."

"Who authorized it?" he asked, pulling out his badge when the boy hesitated.

"Her husband," he said at last, before pointing to the waiting room. "He's in there." Brass uttered a terse

"Thank you," and stalked off to wait, his own heart feeling as though it might need repairing sometime soon.

…

Brass sat in a padded plastic chair across the room from Grissom, who was sprawled the length of four chairs, snoring softly. Brass sat stiffly, too angry to relax and take his furious gaze off the other man. How long he sat there stewing over his thoughts he couldn't begin to guess, his glare wearing creases into his face as Grissom slumbered on. He wondered idly if he should accidentally drop something large and heavy, forcing him to wake up but then decided that he had no desire to converse with the man and settled for sliding back in his chair and keeping his narrowed eyes fixed firmly on the interloper.

After a while however, a commotion in the hallway roused Grissom anyway; he opened his eyes slowly and stretched muscles that ached from lying on a surface not particularly conducive to rest. Sitting upright he rubbed his face, slowly recovering his bearings and feeling even worse for an hour of stolen, uncomfortable sleep. Lowering his hands he saw Brass almost instantly.

"Hey Jim," he greeted, sliding into a more comfortable position, leaning back into his chair. Brass said nothing; the only outward sign that he'd heard was the slight increase in his already heavy frown.

Grissom rubbed his eyes again and exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's been a while," he said after a pause. "That's my fault," he acknowledged.

"This is all your fault," snapped Brass, abruptly losing the ability to keep ignoring his old friend.

"What are you talking about?" asked Grissom, confused.

"This whole thing," seethed Brass. "You are the reason she's here, the reason she tried to kill herself."

"Don't be ridiculous," snorted Grissom. "Sara would never do that; she has far too much respect for human life."

Brass gaped at him, stunned.

"What exactly is she doing here then?" he demanded, wondering if Grissom had lost his mind along with his soul while out digging up whatever secrets he had been experimenting on.

"She overdosed," shrugged Grissom. "Took one too many sleeping pills; an accident I imagine, brought on by exhaustion from over working herself."

"The prescription was three days old," whispered Brass, appalled, "and she took the whole lot."

"What?" asked Grissom, his voice as soft as Brass'.

"She deliberately tried to kill herself; she would have succeeded if Greg hadn't been so worried when she missed the start of shift." Grissom shook his head, still disbelieving.

"She would never," he began.

"She's miserable," snarled Brass, furious. "She has been for months. Have you even spoken to her since you told her it was over? Since you blew her whole world to dust?"

When Grissom said nothing, Brass glared at him in utter disgust.

"I can't believe you," he pressed, angrily. "What did I tell you when you went running after her? When you were so sure you knew what you were doing huh? I warned you and you went ahead and broke her heart anyway."

"I still don't believe she would kill herself," said Grissom, shaking his head. "It's against everything she believes in."

"Yeah, Greg's trying desperately to convince himself of that too; he can't handle this any other way." Brass was sad now as he thought of the crushing blow this had dealt the young CSI as he watched his best friend dying before his eyes. "Did you really believe she would just walk away from your relationship and get on with her life?"

"I hoped," admitted Grissom, his collected demeanor beginning to crack as he sat there listening to Brass berate his actions. "I was distracted; I've been in Mongolia, working on a project. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I got so wrapped up I forgot to pay attention to the rest of the world around me."

"What were you planning to do?" asked Brass. "Fly in here, sign a few consent forms and then leave again when you thought she was getting better?" Grissom said nothing and Brass felt sick at the unspoken admission.

"I had no idea it was this bad," Grissom finally said. "Greg left me a message; it was dramatic and without detail. I thought perhaps that's all that would be needed."

"You don't deserve her," said Brass with quiet fury. "It makes me so sad to think that she would take you back in a second and you don't even care. Do you even know what happened to her when you didn't show up for her birthday?"

Grissom shook his head slowly, Brass' tone making him uneasy.

"She was stalked, drugged and framed for the murder of the only person who showed her a scrap of kindness when she was sitting alone in a hotel restaurant. Her life was turned into a case the entire lab was talking about; she was processed and booked, orange jumpsuit and all. Treated like a criminal. And then a pariah by the lab, when it emerged you two were no longer together and it appeared she was cheating on you, which you and I both know would never happen."

Grissom was quiet for a long time as guilt slowly began to descend on his shoulders, piling up like snow falling in a storm. He had never considered any backlash from the lab being directed Sara's way, or how that might affect her.

"I didn't know," he finally muttered, his words sounding empty even to him.

"How would you?" sneered Brass. "When was the last time you even spoke to her? I know she's tried calling you recently, but have you picked up any of her calls or replied to her messages." Grissom looked down at his shoes; in that respect he was entirely culpable.

"What happened is not exclusively my fault," he finally replied, staring back at Brass with rising anger.

"I know how it works," was the abrasive reply. "I was married; it takes two people to keep a relationship going. But _both_ parties have to want to succeed, and _both_ have to put some effort into it. Can you admit to that?" Grissom glared at him, feeling angry now.

"My personal life is no one's concern but my own," he snapped back.

"It is when it affects someone I care about," snarled Brass, livid.

Too tired, angry and sore to continue the argument Grissom turned away, looking up at the clock.

"She has two hours to go," he curtly informed Brass before lying back down and draping an arm over his eyes, effectively ending the conversation.

Steaming, Jim stalked out of the room and marched to the cafeteria to get some dinner and a coffee.

…

Still angry, but a little calmer thanks to a combination of food and his growing fatigue Jim made his way back to the waiting room shortly before the two hours were up. Grissom was still prone on the chairs, fingers clasped lightly together over his stomach, his eyes counting the tiles in the ceiling.

Scowling to himself Brass took an expired tabloid magazine and slumped into a chair to wait, flicking through the pages without paying much attention. Six o'clock came and went, and still the minutes ticked by. He abandoned the magazine and fetched another even more out of date edition. There was a crossword in this one that had survived undone until now; he pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled answers, trying not to watch the time.

By seven o'clock the puzzle was long finished and Brass was fidgeting in his chair. At half past the hour he got to his feet and began to pace as Grissom sat up, put his elbows to his knees and his head in his hands, fingers splayed into his hair, gripping tightly.

By eight both men were pacing, though still on opposite sides of the room and steadfastly refusing to look at each other. It was nearly twenty past when Doctor Patel walked in, tired and grave as he looked at them.

"The surgery went well," he acknowledged, "but there have been complications. Sara developed an embolism, which traveled to the brain and consequently caused a stroke. She's relatively stable now, but it was a serious occurrence; the outcome will be moderate damage at best." The doctor kept talking, but both Grissom and Brass were past hearing him. For the first time in hours their eyes met and they shared a silent conversation, their animosity pushed aside as concern flowered in its place.

...

...

Wow is this one tough going; I confess it's hard to write GSR outside my usual realm of comfort. Theory just got a new chapter, check it out if you haven't already; Griss and Sara are unravelling slightly under the pressure. Ex Animo gets my attention next, and Shalom's next chapter is nearly ready to be posted.

Please keep reviewing, it makes me smile each and every time.

Cheers, Got Tea?


	3. de omnibus dubitandum est

de omnibus dubitandum est ~ everything must be doubted

… … …

4:19am

Grissom sat in the cold hard plastic hospital chair shoved up against the wall, his head resting uncomfortably against the dull grey paintwork of the cardiac unit's surround. His gaze was still fixed on the inert frame of his wife lying on the bed, but hours had passed since he had actually registered seeing her, so deep in thought was he.

Less than an hour after Doctor Patel had delivered the crushing blow that Sara had stroked on the operating table, she had been settled back in the cardiac ward and he had been able to sit with her. Brass had gone home only five minutes after seeing Sara himself; Grissom had noted tears in the hardened detective's eyes and had been shocked to realize he had never seen the man display such emotion. That Brass had not uttered a single word after the news was delivered had not escaped Grissom's notice either; he was taking it hard.

For his own part Grissom felt as though he was gripped by some unseen force which was keeping him so calm and in control that even he felt disturbed. He had allowed himself to wonder briefly if it could possibly be the lack of restorative sleep, before being interrupted by the arrival of a nurse for whom he had a plethora of detailed questions. He had yet to return to the train of thought.

As complications went, Sara had been hit hard. Post-operative atrial fibrillation, a complication often associated with cardiac surgery in general, had settled into her heart beat, elevating the risk of another stroke as her heart beat became wildly erratic. Doctor Patel had ordered pharmacological cardioversion; drugs that would hopefully make Sara's heart revert to its normal rhythm. With all the blood thinners running through her system, Gil had to hope that no one slipped with a needle or scalpel in their hand, or she would surely bleed to death in a matter of moments.

Since the onset of the arrhythmia and subsequent treatment, the room had been coldly quiet and still. He sat in silence, shifting occasionally in discomfort as his mind ticked away, churning through all the facts thus far. There would be damage from the stroke; Doctor Patel had been firm in his assessment, though until Sara woke it would be impossible to know how her brain had been affected. There was also the damage from the cardiac arrest and the ensuing time Sara had spent without blood flow to the brain to be added on to the list. He had found himself wondering if she would ever be the same again.

The ventilator hissed as he shifted in his chair and he pursed his lips in concerned irritation at the thing; Sara was still not breathing independently, which, a nurse had taken great pains to explain to him, was not a good sign. The longer she remained dependant on life support measures, the slimmer her chances of recovery, and the less the odds of whatever recovery there was of being to any sort of fulfilling standard. Sliding further down in the chair he closed his eyes and inhaled a long, slow, deep breath, wondering what, exactly, he was supposed to do now.

…

Brass walked across the driveway of the house where the decapitated corpse had been found, feeling every step as a bone wearying effort. Greg was inside the living room, gathering up evidence for transport when Brass arrived; the young man looked every bit as tired and dispirited as Brass felt. He looked up as the detective walked in; Brass shook his head and pocketed his phone.

"No change," he informed the CSI. He tried not to take Greg's sad, helpless expression to heart, but found he couldn't. After all, this wasn't just someone they knew, this was Sara.

"What about Mr Harvey here?" he asked instead, trying to push his emotions aside and concentrate of the job. Greg scowled and pointed at a can of oil, a sharpening tool and a hedge trimmer on the coffee table.

"It looks to me like a case of shear human stupidity," he sneered, the disgust in his tone all too evident. Turning, he went back to listlessly gathering his evidence bags. With a sigh, Brass made his way back outside and stood, leaning against the kitchen wall, pretending to study his notebook.

Surely there had to be something other than the current nothing that they could do.

…

DB walked slowly down the hospital hallway with the long shift still dragging at him, despite having clocked out almost an hour ago. Turning the corner into the cardiac unit, he saw Grissom, whom he recognized from a photo he'd seen on the inside of Sara's locker door, talking to a doctor. The doctor nodded, shook Grissom's hand and left. Grissom turned back toward the ICU, but instead of going back inside he stood by the window, staring in.

The closer DB got, the more he could see the exhaustion marring the appearance of the other man. As he watched, Grissom raised a hand and rubbed his face before sliding his hand around to the back of his neck and squeezing the tight, painful muscles there. His arm slid dejectedly back to his side as DB reached the window and stood beside him to look in on Sara.

It took a few moments for Grissom to register the presence of another man beside him, but when he did, DB felt that unmistakable feeling one gets when being scrutinised surreptitiously.

"You must be Doctor Grissom," he said, turning and surveying the man he had long heard about but never come across in person. Over the years he had read journal articles, seen news clipping and heard stories about this man and his expert contributions to the forensics world. More recently he had listened to colleagues fill in more personal details about their former leader, always with that degree of reverence they seemed to reserve just for Grissom. The lab was permanently marked by the lasting impression this man had left in its walls, on its reputation and among its workers.

In the last few months however, he had heard mutterings from Brass, Nick and Greg which seemed to negate all the good previously championed. He could understand their anger; he had never met the man, and yet Sara's situation filled him with resentment and sadness. Sara brought that out quality in the men she worked with; no matter how much she might prefer to struggle on alone, they loved her and wanted to protect her. DB could easily see how her hurt could be a catalyst for the fury resonating in those Grissom had once worked with, particularly in the younger team members like Nick and Greg, who had so idolized the man earlier in their careers.

"I am," replied Grissom quietly.

"DB Russell, Sara's boss." Grissom nodded, but kept his gaze trained on Sara. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name," continued DB quietly, "though not under these circumstances." Grissom inclined his head.

"Sara has told me a lot about you," he acknowledged, still not looking at the other man.

"Not all bad, I hope!" DB's tone was light. A hint of a smile touched Grissom's lips, and he shook his head but said nothing. They stood quietly, watching Sara. Grissom found himself strangely relaxed in DB's presence; there was none of the conflict and anger involved in conversation with Greg or Brass. After a while he found himself compelled to ask,

"How has she been?" DB looked at him, startled.

"Sara? You mean recently?" Grissom nodded.

"She works hard, harder and longer than anyone else in the lab. I imagine you are, or were, familiar with what her timesheets can look like. She's strong, she has more fight than anyone I've ever worked with, or met, even. She's great with the younger CSI's; a wonderful mentor and teacher. She says very little about her life, unlike most of the others she comes to work and just works."

"But she's been doing ok?" DB pursed his lips in thought.

"To most people it seems as if she's adjusted and relatively happy, especially since the kitten she rescued survived surgery and the vet let her take it home." DB paused at Grissom's look of confusion. "You didn't know about the cat?" DB ran a hand through his hair. "Someone is going to have to feed it." Grissom shook his head.

"I've met the cat, and fed it. It doesn't like me. Angry little thing!" DB outright laughed.

"He doesn't like anyone but Sara. She found him at a scene, half dead, tortured and staved by the victim. Rather than wait for an animal control officer to show up she wrapped him up in her jacket and rushed him straight to a vet. The vet said doing that saved his life; the whole shift was waiting for her phone to ring to see if he'd come through surgery. She was ecstatic when got to take him home; said she used to have a dog, and she had missed having a pet in the house."

Grissom felt a twinge of guilt as he thought about Hank; originally his dog, he had taken the boxer overseas with him. Hank had thoroughly enjoyed the new experiences, as had Gil's colleagues at various jobsites, until the day six months ago when he slipped his leash and charged off to meet a venomous snake while they were on location in Laos. Grissom still hadn't managed to tell Sara yet, and he felt a flash of remorse as DB spoke.

"What's his name?" asked Grissom, thinking it might help his cause with the grumpy animal if he knew what to call him. DB floundered for a moment, trying to remember what Greg had said.

"Benjamin," he said at last. They fell silent and turned back to watching Sara, Gil running over the conversation in his mind.

"What about the others?" he asked after a while.

"Hmm?" questioned DB.

"You said, 'to most people' when you spoke of how Sara is doing," Grissom pointed out.

"I did," nodded DB, who had been wondering how long it would take Gil to pick up on that. "She shows a good front to the world; she holds herself well, works hard and makes a point of going out with the guys to the new diner after a case."

"The new diner?" asked Grissom, momentarily side-tracked.

"Franks was shut down," shrugged DB. "There was a case, eight murders…" Grissom stared at him, stunned. He had spent years eating at Franks, chewing over the more difficult bits of evidence, celebrating convictions and commiserating over losses. It was the sort of place that just carried on existing, whatever the status quo. He wondered briefly how Sara had taken it; they had spent so much time together there over the years. Thoughts of Sara brought him back to the topic at hand.

"So the remaining individuals?" he pushed.

"Those of us who know her well enough can see that her actions are a front; she's been desperately unhappy. She's at the lab more than anyone else- I've had to kick her out a few times recently for maxing out on overtime. She's quiet, doesn't initiate conversation unless its work related, she spends hours working out- I can tell from the changes in her muscle tone that she's been spending a lot of time in the gym or exercising at home. She's lost weight, she doesn't eat much, and she sleeps even less; she always looks exhausted! She even moved her mother down here."

"Laura is in Vegas?" asked Gil, surprised.

"She's in a facility," noted DB. "I believe Sara has been trying to visit her every week. She did tell me it's hard; her mother has good days, but they are few and far between. It's the nature of the illness."

Grissom nodded softly; he knew all too well what it was like, having spent time with Laura on several occasions.

"She had us all convinced though," admitted DB, staring sadly at Sara through the glass where she lay, full of tubes and wires, preserved by technology like a specimen in the lab. "We thought she was slowly getting better, holding herself together. I couldn't believe we'd all missed the signs when Greg and I found her; she's an expert at holding the world at arm's length while internalising everything else."

"She always has been," Gil murmured, "she never would have survived until she went away to college otherwise."

"I know about her family," DB said tactfully. "There was a case last year; I took her out to eat afterwards and she told me about her parents. I don't think she was going to- I got the impression there are very few people who know about her early life- but I work hard to build trust with my team and I guess she felt she could explain."

Grissom nodded his understanding, but he had to fight to keep his face smooth and calm. He tried not to think about the years it had taken Sara to tell him about her childhood, and the way he had almost had to prise the information out of her to get to the bottom of her angry, aggressive behaviour. Now she was volunteering it to a man she hadn't even known two years? He clenched his teeth for a moment, feeling a heavy cloud of bitterness pervade through his chest. It took a long moment before he had adequate control of his voice to speak evenly.

"The foster system wasn't kind to her," he clarified. "She was bounced around from home to home, too old to find a permanent placement, too young to be listened to and too angry to settle. She had no idea how to live in a home that wasn't dominated by violence, and there weren't the resources to help every scarred child, especially one who was smarter than the officials themselves." Gil paused and pressed his lips together.

"Why are you telling me this?" asked DB, curious. He knew from conversations with his associates that Grissom was as private about his life as Sara was about hers.

"I don't know," admitted Gil. "Maybe so you understand why she is the way she is. That there's a reason for her… her tenacity, and her… obsessive drive. She's not just reckless, she really cares about her reasons. She cares too much sometimes, I think. But then I wonder how anyone could say that's a bad thing. How can you tell her it's too much, when someone else's welfare is her primary concern?"

"Indeed," agreed DB, wondering how on earth the man beside him could give such a passionate speech of defence, and yet be so oblivious to the double meaning of his words.

"She was on her own for so long," Grissom continued, "from the age of eleven, that it shaped her entire outlook on life. If she wanted something, she had to make it happen. She wanted out of the system, so she went to Harvard on a full ride at sixteen."

"And now she's on her own again," remarked DB, seemingly rather blithely. Grissom flinched at the comment, something DB noticed out of the corner of his eye. "So what did the doctor say? How's she doing?"

"Hopefully she'll be in the ICU for the next few days, recovering from the heart op," Gil told him, his tone flipping right back to steady again as he recited the facts. "If that goes well, she'll get moved to the cardiac recovery unit. Usually people are discharged to go home from there, but Sara will likely move to a stroke ward for rehabilitation."

"Why hopefully?" asked DB.

"She can't breathe independently, which isn't a good sign for long term outlook, and there are other complications. She has arrhythmia- atrial fibrillation- which could cause another stroke, and they have no idea how much damage there is to her brain from the stroke and the overdose combined. Right now, waking up still isn't a sure thing. Eszopiclone causes prolonged coma; they flushed most of the drug out of her system, but it was too late to reverse a lot of the effects. Only time will tell," he finished bitterly, repeating a phrase one of the nurses had uttered to him.

DB observed Gil, wondering what was going through his mind as he talked. He spoke, for the most part, with the detached manner of an observational scientist, until every now and then when his reserve cracked and a hint of his distress poked through. Here was a man who had risked everything, by all accounts, to have a relationship with this woman, committed himself to her in what everyone had perceived as an unbreakable, lifelong bond, and then suddenly walked away from her. Yet he had dropped whatever it was he was doing and flown half way around the world to get to her when disaster unfolded, only to stand quietly and unemotionally on the side lines.

"So the question, I suppose, is what happens to her now," mused DB at last.

"How do you mean?" Gil's eyebrows drew together in an odd mixture of consternation and confusion.

"Well, obviously she isn't going to be discharged, rest at home for a few days and then get back to work," he said flatly. "She's going to need months of rehab and presumably full time care. I can't see her being independently able to look after herself either," he continued, hands raised in a shrug. "If she has even moderate issues it's going to be a long recovery. Plus, she's just had her chest cracked open; I can't imagine recovering from that is a quick thing."

"I hadn't thought that far ahead," admitted Grissom. "I was concentrating more on the immediate present."

"Well, if she has no family to look after her, I guess we'll have to look for another solution." Without giving Grissom a chance to respond, DB glanced down at his watch and then twitched his jacket over his shoulders. "I should get going," he noted. "I'd say nice to meet you, but under the circumstances…" Grissom nodded, his mind whirling as DB started to walk away. Then, without warning, a question bubbled up to his lips before he could stop himself.

"Do you think she did it?" he blurted out. "On purpose, I mean?" DB turned and stared at him, his eyes chilly.

"Do I think she intentionally tried to kill herself?" he probed. Gil swallowed heavily and nodded, not saying a word. DB considered him for a moment, before pushing ahead with brutal honesty. "Yes I do. I think she was suffering more than any of us realized, and I think she gave up hope. " He stopped talking and watched Grissom for a moment, taking in the impenetrable expression that had slipped right back into place. "I think the trauma of the last year pulled her under, and she just wanted an end." DB stared straight into Grissom's immovable, unreadable expression as he spoke, seeing nothing there but the barest of flickers in his eyes as he delivered an intentionally harsh answer before turning and walking away. "Yes, I believe she tried to commit suicide and was, thankfully, unsuccessful."

…

7:37am

Grissom tossed his jacket onto the sofa and kicked off his shoes, toeing them into an unceremonious pile by the wall, too tired and sore to bend down and wedge them into the shoe rack in the closet. He shuffled into the kitchen, intent on finding something to eat before collapsing into bed. Every muscle in his body seemed to be screaming at him after spending so many hours crammed into a hard plastic hospital chair so soon after traveling hallway around the world in such a hurry. The time change yanked at his bones, unyielding in its brutality; he was inordinately grateful that he didn't need to adjust to any particular schedule at the moment, but could simply sleep whenever the opportunity arose. He unearthed a can of vegetable soup and found some stale pita bread that, once toasted, wouldn't be too bad. Rather than dig in the sparsely filled cupboards for anything more adventurous, he opted to top the feast with a glass of water.

He was just putting his used tableware in the dishwasher when a scratching sound caught his attention. Venturing into the laundry room as he traced the sound, he found the cat stepping out of the litter tray. It was already glaring at him as he walked through the door, its upper lips sliding back in a silent snarl.

"Hungry?" asked Gil, scowling back as he retreated to the kitchen and reached for the empty plastic dish and the bag of food. The cat had followed him and now stood across the room watching, his fur bristling as his tail twitched jerkily and his eyes warily followed every move Gil made. Grissom put the dish down and picked up the water bowl to rinse out and refill. The cat continued to watch, not making a move toward either him or the food as he worked. It wasn't until he put down the water and retreated from the room that he heard the sound of small teeth crunching biscuits between them.

Leaving the cat in peace with his meal, Gil returned to the living room to look around. He hadn't been home since a few months after he and Sara had bought the house; now he examined the changed décor of the last couple of years. The photographs of the two of them were missing and there were more plants than he remembered. Absently he filled a watering can in the laundry room and set about soaking the soil in the many pots as he continued his exploration.

Some of the missing pictures had been replaced by shots Sara had taken on their travels; rainforest landscapes, flower close ups and animal portraits now sat where their history had once resided. There were other subtle changes too; the blanket they had once curled together under on the couch was gone, replaced by a soft green throw and the plethora of books and magazines he kept on and under the coffee table were no longer there.

Once the vegetation Sara was so fond of had had its fill of water, he ventured back into the hall, where on impulse he pulled open the closet door there. Inside were a stack of three boxes, which turned out to contain the photographs, the books and the blanket as well as a few other knickknacks and mementos from their time abroad. Lips pursed, he continued to the bedroom, looking around at the room which, the last time he had been in it, had been a mishmash of their personal touches. The bed was still the same, and he felt his chest constrict at the thought of Sara no longer sleeping in the space where they had created so many memories together.

He walked a slow circuit of the room, taking in the neat and tidy surfaces, the way his possessions were carefully placed on shelves and the way his butterflies hung on the walls instead of in the hallway. In the closet his clothes were organized as he preferred, and his shoes lined up precisely along the wall. The bathroom was much the same; his toiletries were clustered on the counter, looking lonely without their feminine counterparts. The entire master suite was, he decided, cold and lonely, as though the warmth of her presence had been sucked away.

As a feeling of deep sadness began to pervade his consciousness, he slipped out of the door and padded down the hall to second bedroom. He noticed immediately what his exhausted senses had not the evening before. The room had been redecorated; the walls were a mixture of deep, deep red and dark purple; in any other place he would have said they would be intimidating, but here they provided a sense of warmth and comfort, and he could instantly see why she had chosen them. The bed was new and covered with soft blankets and pillows. The desk in the corner was the same one she had used in her apartment before they moved in together. Walking over to it, he saw her sketch book and a handful of artists pencils scattered over the surface. The PEAP counsellor had encouraged Sara to find a method of releasing her feelings, and after seeing her doodle on a napkin during one of their sessions, had suggested Sara take up drawing.

Gil flipped open the book and leafed through the most recent pages; most of the images were abstract, which he found odd. What Sara liked about art was the ability to capture an object or moment in perfect clarity. He had never known her to draw anything other than flawless renderings of people, objects or places before. The art on the walls was all new as well; several photographs of landscapes, all taken at sunrise, sun set or in the rain, had been blown up and printed on canvas and then hung throughout the room. They were stunning images, and he knew immediately that they were Sara's handiwork.

The bathroom was just the same; walls painted to match the bedroom theme, canvas photographs hung on the walls and thick towels in colours they had never shared. Everything seemed geared towards warmth and creating comfort. A horrible sinking feeling in his stomach made him think she was trying to fill his lack of presence in her life.

Back in the bedroom, he stared at the paramedics detritus still littering the bed and surrounding floor. Feeling queasy as his mind reconstructed the scene as he imagined it had unfolded, he reached for the discarded wrapping, gathering it all up to throw out. His mind worked at quietly processing the evidence around him; Sara had moved out of their shared bedroom, put away items that belonged to him and seemingly tried to reinvent her life without him in in. That much was obvious to him, and he felt cold as the knowledge descended upon him. What was not obvious, and what he was still struggling to understand, was how Sara had gone from reinventing herself, to trying to kill herself, providing DB was right in his assumptions.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at an image on the wall of a desert landscape under heavy rainfall; struggling to decide if it was relaxing, or scary. Something had happened here, possibly a monumental shift in Sara's thought processes and beliefs, and he was struggling to understand how the one person in the world he knew inside out could succumb to such a thing. He had truly believed his actions were in the best interests of both of them; now for the first time he found he was abruptly questioning himself.

His gaze was drawn to the doorway as the cat walked back in on his way to a nap. The animal paused a few feet away from him and let out a long, low warning hiss. Gil glared briefly back at him and then looked down at the object clutched in his hand. He had picked up the empty prescription bottle; now he examined the label, squinting without the aid of his glasses. Brass had been right, the medication had been issued only three days before the overdose. Overdose. Grissom wondered if he ought to start thinking of this mess as an intentional attempt to take her life but found he could only struggle to comprehend the concept.

The cat leapt lightly and effortlessly onto the bed and snarled at him as it bounded past to the farthest point it could get from the spot he was currently occupying. It settled down on the pillow, its legs bunched underneath, ready to move at a split second notice as it kept angry eyes fixed on him. Grissom wondered if he was really missing Sara, or if he was ruffled by an intruder in his home. By all accounts Sara and this cat were inseparable, so he supposed the first was true. The latter, he guessed, was probably also the case. As DB had said, the cat was smitten only with Sara. Watching the cat he thought about Sara's way with animals and frowned; she placed an extremely high value on life, both human and animal. She would never knowingly endanger another life. That thought rattled around inside his brain as he considered the cat, providing a flicker of hope that this wasn't a suicide attempt.

At the same time Brass' angry words echoed in his mind. 'She's miserable. She has been for months. Have you even spoken to her since you told her it was over? Since you blew her whole world to dust?' He was thoroughly guilty of everything Brass had accused him of, except not having her best interests at heart. That he still did, and always would, take very seriously.

His head aching fiercely, he struggled to his feet and trudged off to bed. He had hoped the day would reveal some answers and help clarify the situation. Instead all he had was a mass of questions swirling around inside his mind, creating a war of opposing viewpoints as he tried to understand the chaos he had returned to.

...

...

This one is really tough going; getting inside Grissom's head in a situation like this is not a place I ever imagined I would try to be. Still, the result, to me, is so worth the effort. I hope you think so too. Happy reading, and please take a moment to leave me your thoughts. Many thanks, as always...


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